As my nephew and I got older, the atmosphere of the trips to the property began to change. We weren't little kids mesmerized by the folktales of Fort Mackinac twenty minutes away from where we camped. For a long time, there had been the bones of an indigenous person in the basement of one of the historic fort's buildings. The bones used to freak me out, it was the first full skeleton I had ever seen. After being on display for as long as I could remember, the bones were returned to the descendants of the indigenous people who lived there.
Mike and I took our bicycles north with us. I was supposed to give us some freedom to explore the scope of the community. The roads were gravel. Our bikes weren't cut out for the terrain, especially on hills. The bikes leaned against the tree, useless except for a trip to Mackinac Island.
One year Mike's dad had given him a flatbed go-cart. Red. Small engine on the back. Small wheels. Low clearance. Somehow my dad fit it into the trailer and it went with us. I remember there was an STP Oil sticker on the bed. For some reason, Mike thought that gave the go-cart some class.
We drove the hell out of that thing.
We had it with us at the beach access one day. The woods behind the farthest access had trails. We took turns going off-roading. At one point I hit a log and flipped the cart. It was the seventies. Helmets? Pffft. Seatbelts? Pishaw! Gigantic bruise on my torso from where the steering wheel struck me? Yep.
My mom had found a piece of chain coral the size of a cantaloupe. She didn't want to walk it back so she put it on the go-cart for Mike to drive it back. The journey was daunting. The rock rubbed over the sticker and the paint chipping both. Mike was not happy.
My dad later repainted the bed and collected a new STP sticker along with some others. Budweiser. AC Delco. NAAPA. Everything was fine.
STUMPSTONE QUOTE OF THE DAY:
What are men to rocks and mountains?-- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
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